Melt
by Silberias
Summary: Sherlock is normally such a rigid person that when he finally decides to throw himself down for a nap, John can't bring himself to wake the man up. Instead, he threads his fingers through Sherlock's hair and thinks about something a woman told him once about love. Takes place after S2.1, ignores S2.3. Complete.


First off, Sherlock fans, I don't write slash really so this is the best you'll get out of me. Sorry to disappoint if you do end up liking this story, it's going to be only one of two slash-y pieces in my gallery (so far). I wrote this after seeing Lily-Fox's "Melt," piece over on deviantart, and was moved to write the story behind it. Funnily enough, this is right around 1000 words, so there you go. "Melt" is a picture worth a 1000 words :p

Second, my regular readers, you all know that I don't normally write slash so don't look at this with the "EE-EE-EE!" from Psycho playing through your minds. If you opened it up from your email, it must have intrigued you! And no, it's not M or even T rated slash so there.

Well, without further ado,

Enjoy!

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It had taken Sherlock about three days to wear himself out enough to admit he needed a nap more than a new violin composition. John had been sitting on the couch, watching the telly quite happily—Sherlock was too preoccupied to yell at John's favorite programmes, which was nice—when Sherlock had stopped dead in the middle of his relentless pacing. The sudden lack of motion caught John's attention only briefly before Sherlock turned on his heel and threw himself towards the couch, intent on a nap of some sort.

John sat in shock for a few moments as Sherlock lay his head on John's lap, his eyes wide as he assessed his new surroundings. He didn't so much as frown as scowl fiercely for a moment before he stole the pillow from the other end of the couch and stuffed it under his own head, on John's lap. Within moments his eyes were closed and his breathing was evening out towards regularity. John—who had been trying to get Sherlock to try to go to sleep for the last day—twisted his mouth a little but reached for the remote to turn the volume down a little. Sherlock lay there, head in John's lap, for the rest of the afternoon.

After the last of his shows were over, John turned off the telly and sat in the silence—he could see why Sherlock liked it to be quiet when he thought, sometimes, it was quite soothing. Looking down at his flatmate, he smiled a little when he saw that Sherlock had his face tucked towards John in his sleep. Very hesitantly he threaded one of Sherlock's curls between his fingers, watching the hair spring back softly towards the detective's scalp. Knowing that somehow, _somehow_, Sherlock would know what he'd done, John then decided to keep doing it—just one lock of hair in disarray would point towards some sort of forlorn lovestory, he was sure, and that just wasn't the case.

Sherlock was his best friend, but he was more than that. John wasn't gay—but if Sherlock wanted him, ever, then that was fine. It was all fine, to John. Irene Adler's words had struck him, last year, struck him hard. She was gay, she'd said, but that didn't stop her from loving Sherlock—and she'd said she could _see_ the way John cared for the dark haired man. John's fingers moved from Sherlock's curly hair down towards his cheek, smoothing the blade of his thumb down the prominent cheekbone while his fingers just traced the jawbone.

It wasn't fair, John decided, leaning against his other hand—fingers unconsciously touching the same places on his own face. Sherlock could, from certain angles, look classically, achingly beautiful, while John sometimes wondered if his face occasionally mutated—women who eyed him up soon lost all interest after they saw Sherlock's beaky mug. One of John's fingers brushed against the dark haired man's pulsepoint, just long enough to feel one sluggish beat of his heart.

It was almost dark when Sherlock finally stirred—half the hair on his head was fluffy, fingercombed, while the other half would probably be crabby and smushed. His flatmate didn't open his eyes, but he did reach a hand up to grasp John's arm. A small smile curved into his lips and he took a deep breath before snuggling a little into John's chest. The exhaled air was warm and damp even through John's jumper.

"Like that do you?"

"John, I will pay four percent of your rent for every day you do this," Sherlock said as he rearranged his head on the pillow a little.

"So if I were to do this every day, every month, you would pay my half, just like that?"

"It is an acceptable exchange, yes. I am an incredibly light sleeper, yet you have managed to avoid waking me for an extended amount of time—and I do believe the last time I awoke this relaxed was when I woke up in Molly Hooper's lab after she spent the afternoon humming….for all the things she is hardly adequate at, Molly Hooper excels at humming," Sherlock said, only opening his eyes as he finished speaking. John didn't respond, just continued threading Sherlock's hair through his fingers, having started to enjoy the feel of it over the last several hours. He hadn't dared move, knowing there'd be hell to pay if he woke up his flatmate from a well-deserved sleep.

"You know, John, I actually think I can't get up at the moment, you've quite melted me to the couch with this behavior. Perhaps only two percent of the rent, I think, else I'll get nothing done." With that, the detective closed his eyes once again, but didn't go back to sleep. His hand tightened around John's arm, and he once again turned his face towards John's chest. John smiled a little, knowing that Sherlock had gone away to his mind palace—he'd learned to tell because Sherlock's fingers of his left hand always indicated when he was opening boxes, re-organizing patterns, connecting ideas, and the detective's hand was twitching where it lay on his middle.

It would be a while yet before Sherlock was ready to stand up and resume his manic pacing, but for now he was getting things done—the part that mattered to Sherlock—and he was resting—the part that mattered to John. The doctor had a sudden urge to lean forward just a little and press his lips against his flatmate's forehead, but he resisted. Sherlock rarely went to his mind palace when there were people around to bother him—that he'd gone there just now indicated that he trusted John not to bother him while he was there. So John watched Sherlock's eyes flitting around behind his lids, and thought about loving Sherlock as he ought to be loved.

The hand at his arm—he still had his head leaning against his hand, his arm still raised and bent to accommodate the position—squeezed once again, and didn't let go.

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